She sensed that, too, although they hadn't talked about it directly.
They were a perfect match physically, and he loved her, but they were
just too different. He banged the wheel with one fist and hung on as
the angel blew harder.
Enormously harder. _Jennifer._ He had to leave her, too. Free
everybody. Oh, no! _Emma. Emma._ He hit the wheel again and shook his
head, but the angel wouldn't let him alone. "Do it now," he told
himself. "Do it now. While you can." Could he?
Yes--if he kept going. The truth kept blowing through him. He couldn't
have continued, otherwise. He bounced to a stop in front of his house,
went inside, turned on all the lights, and played _La Traviata_ at top
volume. He put his toolboxes in the Jeep and covered them with a tarp.
He dumped his clothes in piles on the back seat, shoes and boots on the
floor. He filled a cartridge box with cassettes and put it in the front
seat with the George Nakashima book. He gathered bathroom stuff
together and remembered his briefcase and the file box where he kept
his credit card information, the brokerage agreement, bank statements,
and his passport. He put these in the front of the Jeep and took
another look around the house.
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